Mopping Up

A man finds himself in a cell
cells of his own beliefs, body of life over soul
he now paces in hell

He thinks he’s better than his...
cellmates, will his beliefs tell them, who he thinks he is
this community, isn’t ruled by his dad or him
it has a tank boss, that thinks they share the mess
they’re in

He thinks, he has degrees, and by his creed
he thinks there’s certain deeds he’s deemed
although his feet got him here
mopping up is some operation done by our nation
to some unfortunate other nation
by less fortunate sons of ours saying, “Yes Sir”

So when his tracks were seen
but not cleaned by him
it was finally noticed and although he did other chores
in this think tank
of all the reading and writing and saying of the letters you could put together
the most important word was respect

“Hey profe,” his nickname
on this block there were sides but they all left tracks
thus the attack
“Hey profe you don’t mop”
his feet were beneath him, he left tracks
that’s how he got here
hey profe you don’t mop, his feet were beneath him
but his head was in...

His words now separated him from his cellmates...
his cells now fell, his body structured to his beliefs
hit the floor
and if he rose from where his face now met his feet...

He was concrete in this belief...
he would stand, down the road
knowing we all leave trails and your cells, your mates
know what you’re thinking
so leaving no trace and helping others
to mop up is a step
in the direction

he now......